Icarus
by DestinyWolfe
Summary: After Dean reawakens to find himself changed, Crowley helps him get on track to becoming the most powerful demonic military leader the world has ever seen. But first, they'll need an army. And that means finding new recruits for the Knights of Hell; Fallen Angels to corrupt and twist into creatures of darkness. Good thing for Crowley, he knows exactly where to start.
1. Before the Storm

"Listen to me, Dean Winchester. What you're feeling right now, it's not death. It's life. A new kind of life. Open your eyes, Dean. _See_ what I see._Feel_ what I feel. Let's go take a howl at that moon."

Dean's eyes snapped open, and they were as black as a starless night.

. . . . . .

"Sorry to cut this short, but your big little brother's about to throw a moose-sized tantrum in the room downstairs." Crowley rose from his chair, watching as Dean slowly pushed himself upright on the bed. The new demon blinked his oil-slick eyes, fixing the King with an emotionless glare. "Try not to destroy anything while I'm gone." Smirking, Crowley disappeared with a snap of his fingers.

"Crowley, you son of a bitch," Sam lit a match with shaking fingers, the alcohol-induced wooziness that had surrounded him since Dean's death making it hard to see straight, "if you've found some way to keep from coming, I'll hunt you down and…"

"Kill me?" Crowley stepped out of the shadows soundlessly, eyebrows raised. The King of Hell met the youngest Winchester's surprised gaze steadily. "Oh, please. That's the problem with you boys. Always so predictable."

"So you know what I want, then." Sam lowered the burning match, snuffing it between two fingers. There was an unusual mix of emotions in his eyes; pain, fear, and grief swirling like a dark hurricane.

"A deal." Crowley absently rubbed out one of the symbols on the floor with the toe of his shoe, spreading the fine yellow dust across the pavement. "Like I said, _predictable._" Pulling his shoulders back, he turned his whole body to face Sam. "But what if I told you that wasn't necessary?" His eyes scanned the younger man's face, carefully gauging his reaction. "That you could keep your soul _and_ get Dean back?"

"Are you saying that's possible?" A new emotion joined the raging storm in Sam's gaze and he took a step toward the demon. _Hope,_ Crowley identified the emotion with a glimmer of amusement. "Explain, Crowley!" Sam demanded. "Can you get him back alive, yes or no?"

"Well, not _alive_ alive, but yes, 'alive' in the simplest sense of the word." Crowley put his hands in his pockets, tilting his head back slightly as he narrowed his eyes. A small smile played on his lips as he watched Sam's expression shift from hope to confusion, then to anger and fear. "What I'm trying to say is, you can't bring Dean _back_ because he's not _dead._" Crowley paused to let his words sink in, enjoying the rush of power and satisfaction that ran through his veins at Sam's look of pure shock.

"No," Sam shook his head, hands clenching into fists by his sides, "I checked, there was no pulse. He stopped breathing. He's dead, Crowley. For real."

"Can't be sure until you're _sure."_ Crowley's eyes narrowed a fraction of an inch further. "And when I saw him last, his eyes were open. And there was _life_ in them, Moose. New life. Trust me when I say your brother's only _started_ living."

"Crowley…" Sam was cut off as Crowley lifted one hand, stepping back from the taller man as Sam made a grab for Crowley's shoulder. "What does that mean? Tell me!"

"Goodbye, Moose." Crowley's smile widened as he smoothed down the front of his jacket. "I'll take care of Squirrel for you. Promise." With a snap of his fingers, he was gone.

. . . . . .

It took Crowley less than thirty seconds to locate John Winchester's journal. It was tucked into one of Dean's denim jackets, which he found lying in an unsightly heap on the research table in the library. Tossing the jacket aside, Crowley spread out the old leather book, carefully peeling back each ink-scrawled page until he found the passage he'd noticed on the day he and Dean had gone looking for the First Blade.

… _angels who are fallen are cast into the abyss, where they are twisted until they no longer resemble themselves. They are called devils, and are led by the most powerful demon ever to walk the earth. Although most demons are created from human souls, they can be created from grace as well. If demonic influence is infused into the blood of a fallen angel, their very essence will be changed until they become immortal creatures of darkness, bound forever to the ruler of Hell…_

Crowley smiled to himself as he read the last line, closing the book with a dull thud. _So it's true, then._ Pushing it aside, he summoned the half-empty bottle of liquor across the table with a flick of his hand, pouring the heavily scented golden liquid into a short, ice-filled cup. Lifting the drink to his lips, he allowed himself to revel in this moment of victory.

_Angels who are fallen, bound forever to the ruler of Hell._

Conveniently enough, he had his very own fallen angel on speed-dial. And on top of that, he knew the creature's one weakness.

"Ironic," Crowley swallowed the last mouthful of liquor, setting down the cup with a faint _clunk_, "that the Righteous Man should drag his own savoir back into the pit." Shaking his head slightly, he tore a small piece from the old journal, seizing a nearby pen and beginning to write.

_Dean,_

_We need to talk. You'll know how to find me._

_Sincerely,_

_ Your King_


	2. The Last Light

Calculating red eyes met furious black as the King of Hell and the Heir of Cain stood face to face for the first time. First, because if felt as if Crowley's entire history with Dean was falling away into a dark void of insignificance, leaving the future open to ever spectacular possibility they could imagine. The events of the past few years were meaningless and dull compared to this wonderful moment, this miracle of new beginnings and chances. The world was theirs for the taking, and take it they would.

"Hey, douche-bag. Before I kill you, I just wanna make somethin' clear." Dean held up Crowley's note, crushing it into a ball and tossing it at the other demon's feet. "You are NOT my King."

"Suit yourself." Crowley surveyed Dean across the room, doing his best to keep his less impressive emotions concealed. "But before you kill me, I also want to make something clear."

Dean blinked, his eyes returning to their usual green. Without the dark sheen to hide them, they betrayed the struggle raging just below the surface, the internal conflict between the old Dean and the new. Crowley could practically taste the fear and confusion radiating from the other creature's soul, the deep, crushing loathing that showed in every sharp line and tight muscle of that once-hated face. "I'd tell you to shut up," Dean's voice was somehow darker than normal, as if his words were infused with the same demonic purpose burning away his soul, "but now I'm curious."

Crowley took a step across the musty, abandoned factory floor, carefully monitoring every twitch of Dean's face and hands. "If you kill me, you'll have Hell on earth. I'm the only one in that God-forsaken place with any command over anything. Take me away, and there'll be demonic anarchy within the week."

"I know." Dean rolled up his sleeve and traced one finger delicately over the Mark, smirking. "Which is why I'll be taking your place. I'm unkillable, you stupid sonuvabitch. Shoulda thought of that before you let me use the First Blade in the first place."

Crowley tilted his head back as Dean stalked closer, firmly holding his ground. "Listen, Dean. What you have, it's a gift. Some would even say a miracle. And as much as the old you would hate to admit it, I think the new you understands that."

Dean's smirk widened as he stopped a few feet from the King. "I gotta say, you just don't quit. And as impressive as it is that you're still alive after knowing me for four years, it doesn't make you special. So yeah, maybe I'm a miracle or whatever. Sure. But you, you're nothing, Crowley. Just a salesman with a good pitch."

"Be that as it may," Crowley's eyes narrowed as he took in the raw power emanating from Dean's body, mesmerized by the magnificent energy, "I'm still the one with the influence down-under. If I thought I wouldn't be any use to you, I'd've gone on a little trip to the lovely town of Anonymous, Nowhere as soon as I realized what you'd become."

"So what?" Dean grasped the handle of the First Blade, still absently rubbing the Mark. "You think I can't convince the demons to follow me, is that it? I'm immortal, Jackass. Abaddon took over Hell without the extra mojo I've got. Once you're gone, your slimy followers'll have no choice but to obey me."

Crowley nodded. "Of course. But what if we made a deal, you and I?"

"A deal?" Dean sneered, scoffing. "In case you missed the memo, you've gotta have something I want first."

"But what if I do?" Crowley put one hand in his pocket, the other hanging limply by his side. "What if you took over Hell and let me manage the bureaucracy? I'd take care of deals, politics, the things you have no interest or talent in. You'd have all the time in the world to lead military crusades against the good people of Earth while I took care of business like usual."

Dean's eyes turned black at Crowley's words, his lips curling into a half-smile. "You have no idea how damn good it is not to give a fuck anymore. To actually do what I want for once. I mean, Heaven, Hell, Earth… even Sam and Cas aren't important. I don't give a shit about anything, and it's fucking awesome."

"But you still need to kill," Crowley watched Dean's hand shake slightly around the Blade's hilt and noted the growing blood-lust in those inky eyes, "on top of all your demonic tendencies, you still crave death and destruction most of all."

Dean nodded. "All my life I've been fighting to save this damn planet, and now I just wanna tear it down."

Crowley's smile widened and he held out his hand, eyes shifting from hazel to red in an instant. "So we have an accord?"

Dean eyed his hand warily, like a cat watching a sleeping dog. "On one condition."

"Name it."

"I'm in charge. I tell you what to do, and you do it. No questions asked. We clear?"

Crowley bit back the irritation and disgust that rose in his heart at the thought of obeying a Winchester, forcing himself to speak past the abhorrence constricting his throat. "Crystal."

The new King seized the former's hand, pumping it twice with terrifying strength. "Alright, Vice President." Dean smirked at the shorter demon with obvious satisfaction. "Your first task is to find me some new recruits. If I'm gonna lead an army, I'll need Knights to help me. And since all of 'em are dead…"

"Of course." Crowley relinquished his grip on Dean's hand, taking a short step backwards. "Anything for my new King." He hoped the sarcasm dripping from that last word wasn't too much.

But Dean just nodded, turning away. The Blade was still clutched tightly in one fist, the fingers of his left hand stroking up and down his right forearm. "If you wanna find me, just follow the body-trail. I'm gonna hit New York first and work my way down the coast. Lots of creeps in big cities, and hey, if I'm gonna kill, why not weed out the sickos? I mean, some humans are worse than monsters anyway."

Crowley raised his eyebrows, surprised and annoyed by this obvious display of Dean's fading humanity. "So now Hell's ruled by a real-life Dexter Morgan. Fantastic."

Dean laughed humorlessly, nodding. "Guess so. Well, see ya around, Crowley. It's been nice making you my bitch."

As soon as Dean was gone, Crowley let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. For all his bravado, the previous King of Hell had been terrified. Not by demonic Dean, but rather by that shred of humanity still clinging desperately to Dean's twisted soul. That shard of brightness caught up in the swirling tornado of chaos and evil, that light of goodness and morality…

'Some day that light will go out.' Crowley promised himself as he shook off the last of his fear. 'When Dean Winchester's corrupted blood runs through the fallen angel's veins and the Righteous Man willingly damns Castiel to the pit, the last of his humanity disappear forever. That light will fade and his soul will be changed irrevocably.'

'Well,' Crowley brushed the dust from his suit, watching the tiny particles drift lazily around him. 'It's time I visit an old business partner of mine.' Giving the warehouse one last sweeping look, the King of the Crossroads vanished into thin air.


	3. His Other Half

"I'm no leader, Hannah. I never was." Castiel averted his gaze, his heart burning in his chest. Pain and grief beyond anything he'd ever experienced set his stolen grace aflame, making it difficult to breathe. "I just wanna be an Angel."

Heaven's prison door slammed shut behind him as he made his way into the open air, every step heavier than the last. _What's the point? _ He thought miserably. _Metatron was right. I failed. Failed in the only way that mattered._ The sky's warm light burned his eyes, the gentle breeze too hot and humid. Heaven, once splendidly beautiful and glittering with possibility and love, was now empty, useless, devoid of pleasure for Castiel. _What's the point of paradise if I'm alone?_

Without wings to carry him, it took Cas hours to leave the angelic center of heaven and find his way to the intricate labyrinth of individual heavens where human souls resided. Standing on the edge of a cliff—or at least that was how it seemed to him—he stared down at heaven's gates far below, at the hundreds of souls fighting to break through the veil. Leaping down toward the gates, Cas found the lock—which manifested physically under his gentle touch—and twisted it open. The enormous doorway swung open effortlessly, the souls rushing in with a sound like a dam breaking onto ragged rocks. A tidal wave of pain, fear, and joy surrounded the lost light-forms, like a tangible aura woven of thousands of human thoughts and emotions. Cas could only stand back and watch from afar as they slowly melted away into the matrix of heaven, each finding their place among the stars after nearly a year of imprisonment between death and life.

"Dean," Cas murmured, tilting his head as he regained his high perch and let his gaze flicker over the new arrivals. Thousands of humans had come through the gates, so at first he figured he just hadn't seen him, but after a few minutes of intense scrutiny it began to become apparent that the hunter wasn't there.

"Castiel?" a soft feminine voice spoke behind him, and he turned to see Hannah watching him with confusion and pity in her bright eyes. "The angels need you to come back. So far no fights have broken out between the previous factions, but it's still possible for everything to fall apart. I know you don't believe yourself to be capable of leading us, but you may be the only one who can. You were born different, Cas. A rebel. And right now that's exactly the kind of guiding light we need to get heaven back to normal."

Cas bowed his head, clenching his fists. "Hannah…"

"I know," she cut over him, her gaze taking on a steely glint. "I know that you've lost someone. We all have. During the fall, during our time on earth. But you can't let loses ruin you, Castiel. You have to keep fighting, even when…"

"When I've failed?" Cas felt anger fill the void in his heart, causing his whole body to tremble with emotion. Tears threatened to fall, burning his eyes and constricting his throat. "All I ever do is fail, Hannah. Fail God, fail heaven, fail myself… but most of all, I fail Dean. Metatron saw it, knew what it would do to me if he died. The other angels heard what he said. I failed Dean Winchester for the last time, and I can't live with that."

Hannah stared at him, obviously perplexed, her mouth hanging open like a gutted fish's. "Castiel, I…"

"I was supposed to protect him," Cas snarled, turning away and staring down at the milling souls far below. "I gave _everything_ to save him. Everything."

Hannah's hand fell on his shoulder, and he fought the urge to shrug it off. "Is he here?" she whispered.

Cas shook his head, biting his lip against the fresh wave of agony threatening to overtake him. _If he's not here, then either…_

"Maybe he's alive," Hannah suggested, voicing the infinitely more preferable option. "Or…"

"Don't," Cas snarled, digging his fingernails into his palms to distract from the dull ache in his chest. "He's a good man. The Righteous Man. If he died, he would come here." _Wouldn't he?_

Hannah sighed, the sound soft and resigned. "So you're not coming back?"

"Not until I find him," Cas shook his head. "I'm sorry, Hannah, but the angels deserve someone stronger than me. Someone brave, powerful, and devoted to heaven. A true leader."

When he turned to face her, there was a tiny smile on her lips and a sparkle in her eyes. "Castiel, you're the strongest among us, both in heart and spirit," she tilted her head, contemplating. "The bravest and most devoted of God's children. But it's not heaven that you truly love, that you'd live and die for. I understand that now. For you, there's something greater still."

Cas watched in silence as she turned and walked away, wishing he could help his family and knowing he never would. He could only hope that his loyal second-in-command would find someone worthy of heaven's throne, someone to heal the wounds of civil war and begin a new era after the evil of Metatron's reign.

. . . . . .

Castiel prowled among the new souls like a cat through an aviary, sorting and organizing them in his mind by personality and appearance. Mostly it was obvious that they weren't the man he sought, but every once in a while he'd stop and stare, his heart rising in his throat and hope scorching his thoughts. _It's not him,_ he'd tell himself firmly when the light shifted and the illusion of familiarity disappeared. _He's not here. You'd know if he was._ He didn't know how, but he was sure that if Dean was here, he would've sensed it. Even with his fading Grace, he would know.

By his third time around heaven's newest block, Castiel had stopped seeing Dean in everyone and was finally faced with the truth: Dean Winchester wasn't in heaven. But Metatron had killed him; Cas had seen the blood on his enemy's blade, had felt the smug honestly radiating from Metatron's cold and self-absorbed being as he announced his fatal crime. _And if both those conclusions are true, then…_ Cas closed his eyes, shaking off the terrifying answer to the question he didn't want to ask.

As he turned away from the human-soul matrix with fear and grief burning in his heart, he did his best not to feel, to remain numb and cold. _Like an angel should._ But since when had he ever been a model Warrior of God? Ever since that faithful mission, ever since he'd laid a hand on Dean's soul in hell, he hadn't been the same. Emotions had clouded his once-pure mind and spirit, pulling him down into the eternal damnation that was both humanity's greatest strength and most terrifying weakness.

His stolen Grace throbbed painfully, sending jolts of icy numbness and cold fear rushing through his blood. Like a dark flame that was quickly fizzling out, it pulled at his consciousness, draining his power and dragging him ever closer to the dark void of nonexistence.

_Where do angels go when they die? _ He wondered vaguely as red spots swam before his vision. Lifting his hand to his lips, he felt warm stickiness clinging to his fingertips. The taste of iron and salt burned his throat and tongue, trickling from the corner of his mouth. _I'm dying,_ he thought, a stab of panic shooting through him. _I'm running out of time._

If Dean wasn't in heaven, then there were only two options left. Either the hunter was alive and on earth, or… or he was in hell. And either way, Cas was determined to find him before the last of his Grace faded. Before it was too late.

_I never told him,_ Cas cast a glance over his shoulder at the now-open gates between heaven and earth, sorrow and self-disgust rising with the blood in his throat. _I have to find him. I have to tell him why I fell…_

Even without his wings, Castiel was determined to rescue the Righteous Man no matter the cost. Because if there was one thing he had to do before he died, it was tell Dean Winchester that he, Castiel, Angel of the Lord, was desperately and irrevocably in love.


End file.
